Making Money

First Urchin: ‘Why ain’t Ankh-Morpork like a desert island?’

Second Urchin: ‘’cos when yer on a desert island the sharks can’t bite yer!’

It was side-splitting.

His bleary eyes strayed back to the editorial. They, on the other hand, could be quite funny, since they were based on the assumption that the world would be a much better place if it was run by journalists. They were— What? What was this?

Time to consider the unthinkable …a wind of change blowing through the vaults at last … undoubted success of the new Post Office … stamps already a de facto currency … fresh ideas needed … youth at the helm …

Youth at the helm? This from William de Worde, who was almost certainly the same age as Moist but wrote editorials that suggested his bum was stuffed with tweed.

It was sometimes hard to tell in all the ponderousness what de Worde actually thought about anything, but it appeared through the rolling fog of polysyllables that the Times believed Moist von Lipwig to be, on the whole and all things considered, taking the long view and one thing with another, probably the right man in the right job.

He was aware of Gladys behind him when red light glinted off the brasswork on the desk.

‘You Are Very Tense, Mr Lipwig,’ she said.

‘Yeah, right,’ said Moist, reading the editorial again. Ye gods, the man really did write as though he was chipping the letters in stone.

‘There Was An Interesting Article About Back-Rubs In The Ladies’ Own Magazine,’ Gladys went on. Later, Moist felt that perhaps he should have heeded the hopeful note in her voice. But he was thinking: not just carved, but with big serifs, too.

‘They Are Very Good For Relieving Tension Caused By The Hurly-Burly Of Modern Life,’ Gladys intoned.

‘Well, we certainly don’t want any of that,’ said Moist, and everything went black.

The strange thing was, he thought, when Peggy and Aimsbury had brought him round and clicked bones back into the right sockets, that he actually felt a lot better. Perhaps that was the idea. Perhaps the hideous white-hot pain was there to make you realize that there were worse things in the world than the occasional twinge.

‘I Am Very Sorry,’ said Gladys, ‘I Did Not Know That Was Going To Happen. It Said In The Magazine That The Recipient Would Experience A Delightful Frisson.’

‘I don’t think that means you should be able to see your own eyeball,’ said Moist, rubbing his neck. Gladys’s eyes dimmed so much that he was moved to add: ‘I feel much better now, though. It’s so nice to look down and not see my heels.’

‘Don’t you listen to him, it wasn’t that bad,’ said Peggy, with sisterly fellow feeling. ‘Men always make a big fuss over a little pain.’

‘They Are Just Big Cuddly Babies, Really,’ said Gladys. That caused a thoughtful pause.

‘Where did that come from?’ said Moist.

‘The Information Was Imparted To Me By Glenda At The Stamp Counter.’

‘Well, from now on I don’t want you to—’

The big doors swung open. They let in a hubbub from the floors below, and riding the noise like some kind of aural surfer was Mr Bent, saturnine and far too shiny for this time of the morning.

‘Good morning, Master,’ he said icily. ‘The street outside is full of people. And might I take this opportunity to congratulate you on disproving a theory currently much in vogue at Unseen University?’

‘Huh?’ said Moist.

‘There are, some like to suggest, an infinite number of universes in order to allow everything that may happen a place to happen in. This is of course nonsense, which we entertain only because we believe words are the same as reality. Now, however, I can prove my point, since in such an infinity of worlds there would have to be one where I would applaud your recent actions and, let me assure you, sir, infinity is not that big!’ He drew himself up. ‘People are hammering on the doors! They want to close their accounts! I told you banking was about trust and confidence!’

‘Oh dear,’ said Moist.

‘They are asking for gold!’

‘I thought that’s what you prom—’

‘It is only a metaphorical promise! I told you, it is based on the understanding that no one will actually demand it!’

‘How many people want to withdraw their money?’ said Moist.

‘Nearly twenty!’

‘Then they are making a lot of noise, aren’t they?’

Mr Bent looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, there are some others,’ he said. ‘A few misguided people are seeking to open accounts, but—’

‘How many?’

‘About two or three hundred, but—’

‘Opening accounts, you say?’ said Moist. Mr Bent was squirming.